


Black Moon

by PaxVobis



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Black Eye, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drunken Kissing, Fist Fights, Florida, Jealousy, M/M, One Shot, Perfume, Preklok, Request Meme, Smoking, cali boy gets mad cold, sweden boy is mad hot :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 01:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Skwisgaar and Magnus have a strange moment in the back of the van on tour in Florida, 1997.





	Black Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliopinot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/gifts).



For Skwisgaar, Fort Lauderdale was just another intolerably hot, muggy Florida city, almost swallowed by Miami, its jagged white buildings like teeth jutting up around the black bay.  With the rotating roster of death metal bands he filled for, another tour was just another tour.  Faceless cities, faceless goths and chain-covered American punks, another tour van, another hotel room floor – a bed if you could get a girl before your bandmates did, force them through imagined decency to forfeit one to you.  In Fort Lauderdale in the summer of 1997, Skwisgaar had been too tired to find a girl.  So the bottom of the rented van it was.

It was the heat that got to him.  The night was barely cooler than the day, just thinner, like in the day you had to force the air down into your lungs as if you were drinking it rather than just breathe it in.  Everything felt like a fever to Skwisgaar – the sun in the rearview mirror on the way across from Tampa, Pickles bopping his head along behind the wheel to Cypress Hill tapes, one impossible to distinguish from the next through the smoke haze and the heat.  With the sun came the fatigue, and though the show had been fine, all the water had left Skwisgaar through his sweat and he had stacked back beer after beer, sucked them back until he was nothing but heat illness, sweat and intoxication.  By the time Skwisgaar had been dragged out to the van by Nathan and chucked into the back, he had little more sentience than the clothes that hung, sweat stained, off his back.  Not enough to find a girl to fuck.  So there was no air conditioning for them tonight, and he peeled his shirt off his shoulders, deathless tonight.

For _them_ , as also exiled to the van was Magnus, who had paced around its outside for hours, smoking joint then tobacco, joint then tobacco, leaning on the van, looking up at the moon, swearing to himself.  Something about a woman; Skwisgaar didn’t care so if Magnus had said what it was, he hadn’t been listening.  Magnus still stank of her perfume, like small white flowers, sickly and drying, like he had sprayed it right on his wrists – outside, he called her, stood against the van talking for what felt like hours, Skwisgaar couldn’t be bothered to make out what he said.  Stupid bullshit, the kind of rubbish Americans said to women.  Always fucking around, lying to them, and never getting to the point of what they wanted.  Like that was more artful than actually listening to them, making it clear what you wanted.

Magnus was exiled for fighting with Pickles, apparently over this same woman, getting to blows only after the gig had happened and the beer was in their systems, and Magnus had thrown Pickles into the wall of the men’s bathrooms at the venue and smashed his head against it, and in retaliation Pickles had torn at his hair and given him a black eye, and a strange red line down the side of his face where it had been slammed into the doorframe of a cubicle.  Skwisgaar had not seen the fight, only heard it – swimming in his daze, had followed the others to see Magnus on the floor and blood on the cubicle’s edge from a cut on his cheekbone – the rest just this livid, straight red line.  And Pickles panting and swearing.  Magnus was staying the fuck out.  And Pickles was staying the fuck in.  So that was that.

Smoking, pacing.  The van roof swimming above him.  Skwisgaar didn’t get it, Magnus never fought with him.  They had a mutual respect, and Magnus was always quiet around him – one on one, he barely talked above a murmur, and if he snapped, it was rare – or it was then.  Magnus had gotten in the front of the van and opened the windows with the plastic cranks, letting in the air – the waft of stale perfume.  The scent, though faded and tainted with Magnus’ skin, made Skwisgaar softly horny, a thrumming, living feeling.  Though he couldn’t place the face of the woman in question, he remembered her presence, the smell of her perfume.  A white dress, maybe, lace, inappropriate on such a whore, but then Skwisgaar too never wore anything but white...

A breath of the Miami breeze later and the back of the van was pulled open, and Magnus’ body hauled in beside Skwisgaar, right up against him, slamming the door behind him.  Sudden dark and body warmth, the stink of perfume, and sweat, and beer, and piss from the bathroom floor.

“It’s cold,” breathed Magnus – beer stench, his mouth close to Skwisgaar’s face – “Sorry about it, man.”  But body heat was different to the summer night, and Skwisgaar didn’t care.  He was lying face down, shirt off, and just suffering there beside Magnus’ huge fucking body, burning and reeking of perfume as he lay there staring at the ceiling, and then looking over at Skwisgaar.  Watching him as if suspicious.  As if Skwisgaar would be next in line to steal his girl.

Skwisgaar could have gone to sleep again.  Magnus being paranoid and weird wasn’t unusual.  The smell of the perfume was a heady, vile stench in the hot air between them, and Skwisgaar could barely think for the scent, the heat in his body and the heat outside.  Then Magnus, thinking of something amidst his gazing, sat up abruptly and looked out the front window, towards the hotel that the others were staying in, attached to the venue, then back down at Skwisgaar, lying by his knee.  A different stare this time, enough to make Skwisgaar shift onto his shoulder to try and read it – he was not good at that, and Magnus was particularly unfathomable, this time looking at him under his thick eyelashes in placid, neutral silence, the eye Pickles had blacked swollen, the cut inflamed and black in the dark.

Then there was a curtain of heavy curls over him, and Magnus murmured in beery, hot breath, “Skwisgaar,” to get his attention, and then his wet mouth crushed over Skwisgaar’s, his large hand rushed up his bare chest and over his throat before he laid down beside him again.  Skwisgaar could think of no reason to stop him or break the kiss, and let him sink into his body.  In his drunken, swimming state, another mouth felt like heaven, drowning in touch and the stink of flowers, and Magnus’ fingers laced with his, nursing Skwisgaar’s delicate hands in his own.  And not another fucking word.  It wasn’t necessary to explain why, just a relief to touch another body, a hand over the crotch of his jeans or stroked fluidly through his golden hair.  Skwisgaar didn’t care about things like why.  It was.

And the next day, it was Miami.


End file.
